Musical Chairs
by ThomasPower
Summary: It's the day after Halloween end of Season 2 , and Georgia Lass' unlife is about to get a lot more complicated...
1. Chapter 1

**Musical Chairs**

**My name is Georgia Lass. I'm twenty years old, and ever since I was killed about two years ago by a piece of space-age debris, I've learned a lot about life.**

**Life is a game of musical chairs, with the loser having to stay behind and clean up the mess. As you might guess, I was the one left standing.**

**Sometimes the job of cosmic maid isn't so bad. Other times it sucks. Like now.**

**Chapter One:**

"Damnit, where the fuck is he?" muttered George as she stamped her feet angrily. Thirty minutes ago, she had been enjoying a rather nice dream, one in which she was still alive and helping out at Reggie's birthday party.

And then her phone had rung, destroying that dream. At first, she'd thought it was Mason, because who else would call her at such an hour? To her surprise, it was Rube.

"Peanut, I hate to interrupt your sleep like this, but..."

"But what?" she snapped.

"I have a reap for you."

"Like hell you do," snarled George, her anger rising. "For one, it's three in the morning. Secondly, I have to be at Happy Time at six o'clock. Thirdly, why the fuck didn't you give a post-it for this one out at yesterday's meeting?"

"Clerical Error, Peanut. I only found out about it five minutes ago, when they slipped a package under my door."

_Goddamn it_, thought George. Why couldn't her death have been a clerical error, to be cancelled at the last minute?

"Look, I know you don't want to do this, but you're the closest one. Daisy's on temporary assignment to Plague Division dealing with an airplane crash up at Seattle-Tacoma, Roxy's an hour away from the ETD site, and let's not mention Mason. You're only fifteen minutes away from the ETD site, and it's in thirty minutes."

"Goddamnit, Rube..."

"Look George, I know I can't do anything about this one, but I can take your appointments for today and possibly tomorrow."

"Fine."

"Okay, your mark is L. Malinowski, corner of Fenton Avenue and Fifth Street. ETD 3:35 AM."

"L. Malinowski, Fenton Avenue and Fifth Street, 3:35?" repeated George as she wrote it down on a scrap of paper nearby.

"Right. Better hurry up. Death waits for no one."

_Except me_, thought George as she dragged herself out of the covers and dressed for the reap.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

George checked her watch impatiently. 3:33, and the reap was nowhere in sight. Normally, she'd be relieved that the reap had missed his appointment, and thus escaped death, but this wasn't a normal reap. She was tired, cold and wanted to go back to bed.

"L. Malinowski, get the _fuck_ here, so I can go home!" she shouted into the night.

"What's that, little lady?" came a slurred voice from behind her.

At that moment, her heart (or whatever passed for it) chose to jump into her throat. Whirling around, she came face-to-face with a drunken businessman, whose breath reeked of alcohol.

"Are you L. Malinowski?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I got sent here by the office to make sure you were all right," she replied right away without thinking.

"That so? You can tell those sons of a bitches that Leslie Malinowski isn't one to come crawling back on his knees! Bob Harper can go fuck himself."

"I'm sorry about your job, but Rob in accounting was worried about you, so he sent me."

Leslie staggered from one foot to the other as he tried to comprehend what she'd told him. "Rob? I don't know any Rob in accounting..."

Putting on a sheepish smile, George reached out and brushed her hand against his arm to pop his soul, and was greeted by the characteristic whooshing noise and golden sparkle that only the dead or undead could see.

And at that moment, Leslie Malinowski threw up all over her.

"Jesus!" shouted George as she realized what was happening and backed away from him, but not before her clothes were covered in vomit.

"Sorry," he mumbled as he staggered out of her way. As he did so, his toe caught on the curb and with a drunken cry, he fell; his head hitting the street with a thud.

A second passed. Then five. Ten.

_No soul_, realized George. What the hell was going on here? Was the universe fucking with her again?

It was then that she spotted a Graveling running down the street. With a leap, the Graveling landed on the controls for a cement mixer that had been chugging away to prepare the concrete aggregate inside for an early morning pour.

With a squeak of metal, the mixer's tube swung over and began disgorging wet concrete onto the unconscious man's head, quickly burying him in seconds.

As George stood there blinking in disbelief, the Graveling turned away from the the controls, and faced her with a nervous look on it's face, shrugged it's shoulders, and disappeared into a cloud of vapor.

"Okay..." she muttered, trying to regain her bearings. "That was new."

"What's going on?" came a voice from beside her.

_Finally._

"Look, I hate to break it to you, but you're dead."

"I am?"

"Yeah, see that slob under that pile of cement? That's you."

"Damn."

At that moment, the twinkling light show began.

_Thank Christ._

As she watched, L. Malinowski walked into what looked like a giant train yard straight out of the days of steam trains, an older man with a vague resemblance to the reap waving him on, dressed in an old-style locomotive engineer's outfit.

As the lights faded, George realized then that she was standing in the middle of Seattle at 3:35 in the morning; with her clothes soaked through with vomit, and she was due at Happy Time at six.

"Fuck. My life fucking sucks," she muttered to the night without the slightest trace of irony.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three:**

Most of the Happy Time cubicle farm was in darkness when George got there. As she walked past the receptionist's area, she nodded imperceptibly to Crystal, who returned the favor.

"Oh, there you are Millie!" Delores said as she walked up, holding her notorious keychain in one hand.

"It's so good that you're here early! We've got a long day ahead of us, for it's that time of the year, Millie, and I just don't know who I can trust here at Happy Time with this kind of responsibility."

"Uh, what time of the year?"

"Oh, I forgot, you're still relatively new here, Millie." A smile spread across Delores' face. "It's that time of the year when I have to go into the personnel files and clear them out."

"Clear them out?"

"Official Happy Time policy states that records must be kept for five years after someone gets a job through us or terminates their employment with us, and when that five year period is up, the files are destroyed."

"Officially, only I'm allowed into the personnel room for the fall cleaning, but seeing as how you handled yourself so well with the Georgia Lass thing..."

As she said the words "Georgia Lass", Delores brought a hand up in the universal _shhh!_ motion, and George nodded in reply, smiling a little.

"...I thought that this year, you could help me out. Unofficially of course."

"Sure, no problem."

_I figure this is good for at least ten, fifteen absences, and the extra pay is always nice..._

**Two and a Half hours later**

"And that's it for the K's. I'll go get the Ms and Ns while you start on on the Ls," replied Delores as they finished with the box of people whose last names started with K.

"Sure thing, Delores..."

As Delores walked away, to get more files, George fed the pile of files that had built up over the last few boxes into a shredder and began working on the Ls.

Robert Lapp; Still has two years left. Mary Laramie; shred it. Charles Larez – six months left. Georgia Lass...

**Georgia Lass?**

At that moment George not only lost her train of thought, but it jumped the tracks, rolled down the embankment, and exploded.

_Is this what it all comes down to? Eighteen years of life fed into the shredder in five years when my time is up, and no one is the wiser?_

An image of angels working in a heavenly filing room popped into her mind at that moment.

"Damn it. How am I going to fill my quota for deaths this week?" muttered an angel whose nameplate read _Bob - Death Assignment_.

Another angel walked by at that moment carrying a stack of files, and the topmost file slipped off and fell onto Bob's desk. Picking it up tentatively, Bob saw the name on it: **LASS, GEORGIA.**

_Stop it_; George thought, mentally scolding herself for letting her thoughts get away from her. But she couldn't shake the image of some heavenly filing fuck-up being responsible for her death.

Looking around, she saw that Delores was still rummaging around at the far end.

_Here goes nothing..._

She quickly slipped the file into her purse. _This_ one wouldn't be going into the shredder.

Turning back to the task at hand, she reached out for the next file; opening it with an unconscious motion.

Joy Lass...**JOY LASS?**

_Of course; your mother has a file, she did come here for a job, remember?_

Curiosity got the better of her, and she quickly scanned down her mother's file, which only served to irritate her. Joy was everything she hadn't been – eager, knowledgeable, and experienced.

Closing the file with a sigh, she put it into the _keep_ pile.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four:**

"Damnit, why do I get two post-its?" moaned Mason.

"Because," said Rube with a sigh, "Daisy's out helping Plague division with a plane crash out of Seattle-Tacoma."

"Why does she get all the good stuff and me all the bollocks?"

"Because she's not a fuck-up, that's why," added Roxy in between bites of her breakfast. "Where's George?" she added.

"She already did her reap."

"Bollocks!"

"Last minute change of plans from up high, Mason. Perhaps you might have wanted to go out at three in the morning and do it?" replied Rube coldly.

"On second thought, no."

"No, you'd be too drunk at that hour to do it," Roxy said as she put down the money for her meal on the table and left to carry out her reap.

Rube sat back in his seat and groaned. Out of the corner of his eye; he caught sight of movement towards the pile of money Roxy had left on the table and rapped the offending hand.

"Bad Mason."

Glaring at Rube for foiling his attempt at obtaining money, Mason left Der Waffle Haus, leaving only Rube at the table.

With a groan, Rube leant back in his seat, rubbing his temples.The undead perversely enough, could still get headaches; and he had one hell of one after the surprise rescheduling that morning and now with Mason's bullshit.

"They don't pay me enough for this crap."

_**Seattle-Tacoma International Airport**_

"You ever been involved with one?"

Daisy Adair looked at the reaper next to her, a guy from Plague division named Louie.

"Once, back in the thirties. Of course, back then, it wasn't called the mile-high club, and they gave you more than just peanuts."

"Those days were easier, a lot easier."

"Yes they were, you could easily find someone for some fun – nowadays they're all so worried about STDs or pregnancy."

"Uh..." stammered Louie, who wasn't used to the way that Daisy regaled the world with tales of her past exploits. "I was referring to the handling of the souls, not getting laid."

"There is that," replied Daisy with a smile.

"Back then, planes flew so low and slow that there was always a possibility that someone could survive the crash, and a lot less people travelled in each one, making reaping them much easier. Now, we have a hundred, two hundred people on the same plane, and odds are, all of them are gonna die, and in horribly messy ways; so we got to pop their souls early, else we have to find a fingernail. That's no fun, I can tell you."

"So how do you handle them now?"

"Well, you see that ticket attendant up there?"

"The one with a poor makeup base, and looks like she just woke up?"

"That's Cindy; she shakes people's hands when they present the tickets; they're pleasantly surprised by the 'personal touch' these days; so they don't notice it."

"You can't do them all that way."

"No. For that there's Rebel," added Louie, pointing towards a dog and his handler working their way through the people waiting for their flight.

"Kind of cute, but not my type."

"I wasn't referring to the man, but the dog."

"Wait...the _dog_ is reaping people?"

"Yep. Makes our job so much easier. People don't care if a drug dog sniffs them. Most people go 'aww, look at the cute doggie, can I pet him?' and bang, you're done."

"A _dog..._" repeated Daisy.

"Yep. Took some convincing of the higher ups to let us use dogs, but when we pointed out that nowadays you have lots of dogs at airports, from drug dogs to bomb dogs, and that people don't mind them sniffing around, lights finally went on upstairs."

"So what do we do?"

"We're looking for a M.Sanders."

"I think that one looks like a Sanders," said Daisy, pointing to an older woman standing in line.

"Let's go."

As they walked up to the woman, Louis looked over her, and noticed on her luggage a name tag with the name Marilyn Sanders. _So this is the one who survives_, he thought.

"Excuse me, are you Marylyn Sanders?"

"Who wants to know, dearie?"

"I think I went to college with your son, he couldn't stop talking about you."

"Oh, that's my Jeff."

Out of the corner of his eye, Louie spotted Daisy reaching out to reap Marylyn, and shook his head.

Giving him a look like he'd grown a second head, Daisy muttered all the way back to their lookout post.

"What the hell was that? Her name's on the post-it. So why can't we reap her?"

"She's not going to die."

"What?"

"With today's plane crashes, it's just easier to give us the post-its for those who survive, than for those who die."

Nodding towards M.Saunders, Louie drew Daisy's attention once again to the middle-aged woman. As she watched, Rebel and his handler walked up to the woman. After sniffing at Saunder's luggage, Rebel immediately sat down.

"Another advantage of drug or explosives dogs on our payroll, my dear. We can legimitately pull people off and cause them to miss their flights a lot easier than in the old days. No false arrest charges, because who's going to complain about a dog? And later, when they're in the mood to sue, that's about when the news comes on about a plane crash, and they forget all about suing, and thank God for the dog's false alarm."

"Looks like you don't need me here," said Daisy, annoyance creeping into her voice.

"Actually, we do. See, in about thirty minutes, Halland Flight 314 is going to go down in a field about two miles from here, due to an electrical fire in the cockpit shortly after takeoff. You ever handled over two hundred souls at once, all demanding to know what's happened, and shouting each other down? It's a fucking nightmare for just a few guys, hence why we pulled you and a couple others in for extra help."

"Hmpfh."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five – _The Fuck-With-Me Gun_**

"Goddamnit." muttered George as a kid on a skateboard suddenly appeared on the street just ahead of her, causing her to slam onto the brakes. With a screech, the Mustang came to a halt several feet from the kid, who was frozen to the ground in shock.

"What? What are you waiting for? Go!" shouted George, finally breaking the spell the kid was under, and he skated away.

"Damn kids," she muttered darkly as she manouvered her car onto the street where she and Daisy shared a house.

As she neared the house, she saw that a relatively nice car was parked on the curb.

_Who might that be? Mason? Better tell him to get rid of it before the police track it here._

Opening the door, as she put down her purse on the table next to the door, she saw the one man who she never wanted to see again, sitting in a chair by the fireplace.

Thomas "Trip" Hesburgh III.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" she snarled, anger streaking across her face.

"I finally got back from New York, George." replied Trip as he stood up with an ice pack on the right side of his face.

"Got back from New York?"

"Yeah. Had to go there for a month to deal with my dad's estate."

"Then why the fuck didn't you call, or let me know?" she shouted.

"I tried, goddamn it!"

"Bullshit!"

"Look, I lost the post-it that your...friend Mason gave me with your address on it."

"He gave you a post it?"

_My God, Mason. How can you be so fucking stupid?_

"Yeah, he wrote your address on the back of it. I put it into my wallet, but it got lost somehow."

"Uh huh," replied George, skepticism in her voice.

"So I tried the first thing you do when you forget an address, but you know the name..."

_**One Month Ago, Seattle-Tacoma Airport, First Class-Traveler's Lounge**_

"Goddamn it, Trip. We don't have the fucking time to look up your 'girlfriend', our flight leaves in twenty minutes," shouted Ashley Hesburgh as she watched her brother head to the phones in the lounge with a white pages book.

"Be quiet, Ash; It'll only take few minutes; I only have a few more names to go."

The first one on the list of names listed as G. Lass, was one Gertrude Lass, while the next one was Gareth Lass.

_Fuck. That just leaves this one_, thought Trip. The one he'd been saving for last, despite it's obviousness, because of the awkwardness.

**LASS, Clancy and Joy...3851 Beatrice Lane**

**Georgia...3851 Beatrice Lane**

_Yes, that would be such a great call, _he thought. _I'm calling to try and get in touch with your daughter, I had sex with her but lost her address, can you give it to me? Thanks so much!_

With unsteady fingers, he punched in the number for 3851 Beatrice Lane._ Oh god, I hope I don't fuck this up._

After several rings, a voice came on the line.

"Hello?"

"Is this the Lass household?"

"Yes it is." replied the voice, which sounded pretty young.

_Didn't George say she had a sister?_

"Uh, I'm calling to try to get in touch with Georgia Lass, do you have her address or phone number?"

On the other end, Reggie's eyes widened. _Get in touch with George? Does this mean this guy knows George somehow?_

"Uh, how do you know George?" asked Reggie, trying to keep her voice down so that her mother wouldn't overhear their conversation.

"I uh, met her at a...social meeting, and we got to be pretty good friends, and now I'm trying to get in touch with her, but forgot her number."

"How was George?" asked Reggie, a little too loud.

"Uh. Smart, funny, and sarcastic."

Suddenly, the line dissolved into random noise, with the faint cry of "Mooomm!" in the background before an older woman's voice came onto the line.

"Joy Lass here, what's this about George?"

"Uh, Hello, Miss Lass; I'm trying to get in touch with your daughter..." stammered Trip, his well thought out plan to get George's number falling apart like he was a rookie reporter, not some seasoned writer.

"Look, I don't know who the fuck put you up to this, but stop fucking with us," snapped the voice over the line.

"There's no reason to get hasty, Miss Lass; I met your daughter at a social event and I'm trying to find her address so I can get back in touch with her..."

"Get in touch with her? You might think that's a joke, but I don't." With that, Joy brought the phone down into it's cradle, cutting the connection.

"I swear if this goddamn shit keeps up, I'm getting Caller ID." she muttered to herself. First the calls at almost every hour of the day where nothing was said, just breathing, and now random people feeding Reggie's delusion that George was still alive?

_Fuck, why was life always so complicated?_

_**Present Day, Hagen/Adair Residence**_

George listened to Trip's elaborating of his abruptly ended call to the Lass household with mounting dread.

"When I finally got back from New York, I came over here as soon as I could. Your 'friend' Mason wasn't too happy to see me." finished Trip as he shook the ice pack he was holding over what appeared to be a pretty enormous black eye.

"I had some time after Mason left, and before you arrived, so I called in this address through directory service; and a Georgia Lass doesn't live here, but a Sally Adair and a Mildred Hagen."

"Um," stammered George, her rising fury at Trip for abandoning her and leaving her high and dry disappearing faster than an ice cube in an oven as she realized the implications of what Trip was saying.

_It was at that point, that I realized that not only had the universe cocked the fuck-with-me-gun, but had fired it. Repeatedly._

_Fuck._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six – _Damage Control_**

"Um. I'm sorry that you had to find out about my family that way," began George, her heart (or what passed for it) beating rapidly.

"Ever since my mother and I had that little falling-out, we're not on speaking terms."

"What happened?"

"When I decided to drop out of school, she was really angry, and she all but disowned me."

_Which isn't far from the truth actually, except for the part about her sending me to Happy Time and my eventual fiery death, but let's not discuss that._

"The feeling was mutual; and things only got worse after my parent's divorce recently, so I changed my name from Georgia Lass to Mildred Hagen to get away from it all."

"So um..." trailed off George, as she nervously twisted the strap of her purse.

_Oh god, oh god, let him buy it._

"So why'd you tell me your name was Georgia, not Mildred?"

"To tell you the truth, I'm not ready to totally give up on my family, if you can understand that."

To her surprise, Trip nodded.

"There have been times that I've thought about changing my name. Oh sure, I've got a catchy nickname with 'Trip', but there are times when being Thomas Hesburgh_ the third_ annoys me. People assume that I got where I was because I went to all the right places and got my ticket punched in the right order, not because of my abilities."

"I can imagine," replied George. _Damn it, stop making so much sense so I can get rid of you._

"Look, I'm sorry for getting you in trouble..."

"Wait, how do you know about _that_?" George asked.

"Before Mason gave me this," Trip said, shaking the ice pack on the side of his head for emphasis. "He told me all about how you got arrested that night because of me – I should have left you a note about my trip to New York, but I figured on being able to call you and letting you know..."

"It's alright, Trip." _God, I can't believe I'm saying that._

"Um. Can we get together for dinner sometime this week? I know we didn't get off on the right foot from the start, and I can't do anything about that, but I can try and make amends for it..."

_Please tell me this isn't happening to me. Why the fuck am I even seriously entertaining his offer?_

"Um. How does Wednesday night sound?" George said with a small flourish.

"Sounds good to me. Um. I guess I better be going now."

"Okay."

As Trip was leaving, George unconsciously brushed her hand against his shoulder and gave a little smile, causing him to smile in return.

_Why the hell am I even doing this? Why am I smiling right now? Was Ray right after all?_

Thirty minutes later, she sank into the cushions at their booth in the Waffle Haus, looking askance at Mason, who was rubbing his hand.

"Mason, I appreciate you looking out for me, but I'm not your little sister that you have to protect."

"Bloody Hell, George, what did you expect me to do when he showed up? Smile and say 'Oh thank you so much for fucking up George's life?' I still feel like I'm responsible for what happened to you that night..."

"Oh my." interrupted Daisy, who had arrived a little earlier and had overheard the whole thing. "I didn't think you knew the meaning of the word 'conscience', along with other things such as personal hygiene and sobriety."

"Daisy, I'm not in the mood for your witty banter right now," replied George.

At that moment, Roxy made her appearance. Sitting down next to Mason, she looked over to where Mason was rubbing his right hand and sighed.

"Mason, how many times do I have to tell you? It's all in your head. You can't break your hand, no matter how hard you try." she snapped.

"It bloody well feels like it's broken," he moaned.

From the back of the diner, Rube noted with satisfaction that his little family was already there. He'd been through quite a few reaping groups, and this was the one he felt the most at home with; and that included even Mason. Walking up to the booth, he put his day planner onto the table, interrupting what looked like a serious conversation between George and Mason.

"I hate to interrupt you two, but how was everyone's day? Your reaps go as planned?"

Daisy was the first to speak up. "Today was absolutely horrible. I think I ruined my shoes in that field, trying to herd all those souls, and then the police detained me for over an hour for questioning over what I saw."

"Could be worse. You could've spent an hour with tweezers looking for a piece to pull the soul from." replied Rube, causing Daisy to shudder involuntarily at the thought of ruining her manicure looking for a finger or whatnot in a muddy field.

"Mine went fine. No problems," Roxy announced as she took a sip from her drink.

"And what about you two?" asked Rube as George and Mason studied the pattern on the Formica counter top instead of replying.

"Well?"

'

"Georgia has boy problems. Again."

"Daisy!" shouted George, exasperation showing on her face.

"That boy, what was his name? Ah yes, Trip. He showed up at George's place to apologize it seems like."

"And?" asked Rube.

"I have a date with him on Wednesday," George said with a sigh.

"That's nice." finished Rube. At least George was starting to adjust to life after death and moving on...

"As Georgia Lass," added Daisy with flair.

If it wasn't for his decades of experience in dealing with situations like this, Rube would have blown his top then and there. Instead, he just said in a curt voice "Peanut. Bathroom. Now."

As they walked into the bathroom, leaving behind the others, the moment the door closed behind them, Rube let it fly.

"Peanut, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"So I'm going out with a guy, so what? Can't I have a life?" she replied testily.

"You're going out with him as Georgia Lass. Who is dead, I might add."

"So? I don't see you adopting an alias. Or Daisy, or Mason, or..."

"Peanut. I've been dead for nearly eighty years. Daisy's going on seventy. Mason died forty years ago thousands of miles away. Roxy's been dead for twenty. You on the other hand, have been dead for only about two years and you reap in your hometown."

"If that wasn't enough, you are getting involved with the living, specifically as a _dead girl_."

"And you fear that somehow, I will be discovered, and people will find out that I'm...dead? When not even my own mother didn't recognize me?" George added bitterly.

"You're using a dead girl's name. Peanut. That gets you into trouble these days, what with identity fraud. It doesn't matter if they think you're just a criminal or a crazy girl who thinks she's Georgia Lass, because they will notice things. Break it off, before things get worse."

"What? Because I'm dead, I can't do anything but work, and reap? Is that what it is?"

"That's the way it is, Peanut. You're lucky, you know that?"

"Lucky? How? I got hit by a toilet seat at eighteen, and now I have to watch as hundreds of people go on to their reward, while I get stuck here with the job of cleaning up afterwards, the pay for which, by the way sucks!"

"In the old days," said Rube with a sigh. "Reapers didn't get assigned to their death groups, to reduce the chances of the living recognizing the dead walking the earth. With so many people no longer believing in religion, the people up top felt that the rules didn't need to be enforced so stringently about twenty five years ago."

"So I should be thankful to the powers that be, for allowing me to watch from the sidelines as my family gets more and more fucked up, and that I can't do a goddamn thing about it?" shouted George.

"Fuck it. I'm done here," she muttered, and left the bathroom, leaving Rube behind.

"Come on, Mason" George said as she motioned for him to follow her as she passed their table.

"What's going on, George?" asked Mason as he fell in behind her.

"You feel like getting drunk tonight?"

"Always."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven – Damage Control

(Writers Note: I've never had a drink in my life, I hate the taste of alcohol, so I'm just winging it here with cocktails et al, so bear with me if I get drinking scenes horribly wrong).

**O'Sheahan's Irish Bar and Grill**

"So what was it like for you?" George asked as she downed another shot of vodka.

"Uh..." replied Mason as his undead brain struggled to string together a response. Even though reapers couldn't get alcohol poisoning or hangovers; a blood alcohol content approaching 1 still had an effect on their thinking.

"It was bloody awful, George." he finally replied. "Here I am, trying to tell my mum and dad that I'm here and okay, and they think that I'm a bloody lunatic."

"So you tried to contact them?"

"Bloody right I did. I tried to tell my mum why I did it, and I just...forgot why."

"Yeah, I've been through that."

"The worst bloody thing of it all was that there was no way of letting them know that I was all right and that I had made something of my life after death before they both died in a car crash one night. Couldn't even bloody get that reap."

"Bartender! Another bottle please!" he shouted.

"So you made something of yourself?" George asked, curious about this.

_So Mason wasn't always the fuck-up? Interesting._

"Yes, Georgie, I did. I was the best reaper in my division, and I managed to get a posh job as a civil employee – oh, it didn't pay that much, but it was _something_."

Grabbing the bottle from the bartender; Mason pulled the top off in a smooth practiced motion, and began to drain the bottle.

"Sir...don't you think you should stop?" said the bartender, staring dubiously at Mason.

"Don't worry about my friend, he'll be all right," reassured George.

"He better be, I don't want any trouble with the police."

Once the bottle was a quarter of the way gone, Mason put it down onto the counter and stared at George with watery eyes.

"You think being 'Toilet Seat Girl' to everyone is awful? Try 'Hole in the Head Mason', or 'Black and Decker Mason', and the knowledge that your mum and dad went to their deaths thinking that you were and would always be a bloody idiot who was high half the time and decided it would be a good idea to drill a hole in their head," he finished with tears streaking down his face.

As Mason sobbed into the counter, George put an arm around him, a piece of the puzzle that was Mason falling into place.

_Poor Mason. He never got the second chance that I got with Reggie._

**Ashley Hesburgh's Apartment – That Same Time**

"You're _what_?" shouted Ashley Hesburgh as her younger brother told her about Georgia/Mildred.

"You're not thinking clearly, Trip. Remember what happened with Jacky?"

"Do we have to talk about Jacqueline, Ash?" he pleaded.

_God, you make one relationship mistake and she never lets you live it down._

"Yes we do, Trip. Don't you remember how she all but admitted that she was only in it for our family's money, and how you chose to ignore the clues and hints until it was nearly too late?"

"Ash..."

"And now you're doing it all over again with this..._girl_, this _Georgia Lass_, who you don't know a damn thing about."

"Can't you just admit that I've learned my lesson, Ash?"

"Yes, you've learned your lesson well, so well in fact, that I found you necking with that girl at _dad's wake_, Trip." muttered Ashley, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"This isn't going anywhere, Ash. I'll talk to you later."

"Don't you dare!" shouted Ashley, only to be cut off by a dial tone. "You asshole!" she screamed.

After she had calmed down enough, she went over to her computer. Turning on the monitor, she brought up an Internet search engine in one window, and a background investigation company that she had an account with open in the other window.

_You may not like it, little brother, but someone's got to look out for you, now that both dad and mom are dead..._

In both windows she typed in Georgia Lass and hit enter.

Moments later, she was looking through the background check service, which showed that in the entire United States, there were just two Georgia Lasses, one was a 73 year old woman living in the Northeastern US, and the other was a 18 year old girl living at 3851 Beatrice Lane in Seattle with her parents and younger sister.

_So I guess the younger one is our Georgia Lass..._

Switching her attention over to the internet search engine, she found that it was dominated by news accounts of how one Georgia L. Lass, a native of the Seattle area, was killed by a piece of the MIR space station in a freak accident. It was with some interest that she saw that one of the articles was written by Trip himself.

Clicking on it, she brought up the obituary.

**Georgia Lass; Local Teen**

**By Thomas Hesburgh III**

**Staff Writer**

**Monday, June 30, 2003.**

**Georgia Lass, 18, a local teen who had recently returned home from college, died in a freak aerospace accident on July 24 as a piece of the MIR space station survived re-entry and struck her on the head. **

**She was born in Seattle to Clancy and Joy Lass on April 25 1985, and attended local schools.**

**One of her teachers, Miss Laura Ingram, of Perryville High School, where Georgia attended school from 1998 to 2002, said of the deceased; "Georgia was so smart, yet so withdrawn at the same time. It's a shame, really."**

**Survivors include her parents, Clancy and Joy Lass of Seattle and her sister Regina Lass.**

Ashley sat back in her chair, and thought over the implications of what she'd just found out. Her brother had told her that according to "Georgia", her mother had disowned her; hence her anger at being contacted by Trip a month ago.

Obviously, this wasn't the case.

"Little Brother, what the fuck have you gotten into, this time?" Ashley muttered as she pulled out a bottle of Yuengling from the mini-fridge in her home office.

_I didn't think anyone could get more fucked up than Jacqueline, but leave it to Trip to find someone even more fucked up..._

With a groan, she opened an email program and began typing out a letter to one of the private investigators she'd used in the past to check up on Trip's girlfriends.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight – Fate and Predestination**

"I think I'll have the blueberry waffles this time, Kiffany." announced George.

"My, you're in a good mood today, aren't you?" remarked Kiffany as she wrote down the order on her scratch pad. "And what will you others be having?"

"Omlette with Bacon," replied Rube; followed by the others who placed their orders. As Kiffany walked away to give their order to the kitchen, Rube pulled out his well-worn leather organizer. Flipping it open to the pages with post-its, he began to issue them.

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed George after getting a thin stack of four stuck together. "Why do I get _four_? Is this some sort of punishment?"

"No. They're all at the same location, and you're the only one of us who can do the job and not attract attention."

"Lucky me," George muttered as she began to study the post-its. 9321 Harbrook Lane, and all four of them were at 2:36 PM. The address was somewhat familiar, and while she waited for the food to arrive, she rolled it around in her head.

_Harbrook Lane...Harbrook Lane...wait a minute...that's Franklin! That's my old high school!_

"It's my high school," she announced to the group.

"Haven't had one of those in a while," Daisy said. "The kids here are so much less exciting than in New York."

"Yeah, all they ever sell is Ecstasy, not the good stuff, like cocaine or angel dust," declared Mason, causing the others to look at him like he'd grown another head. "Hypothetically speaking..." he added hastily, in response to the look that Daisy was giving him.

"Good. Otherwise I'd have to charge you with Narcotics and Child Neglect." Roxy said as she poured maple syrup over her pancakes.

"Is there a code for being unbearably sexy?" Mason replied, cracking his knuckles.

"Oh, yeah. 141."

"What the Christ is that?"

"Surprised you don't know it," Roxy replied. "When's the last time you were arrested for lewd conduct?"

"Um. Three weeks ago?"

_The things I put up with_, thought George as she finished off her waffles. "As much as I'd like to stay and hear _all_ about your crimes, I've got a job."

As she put down the money for her breakfast and walked away, she could hear the others bantering back and forth over Mason's conduct.

**Happy Time Temp Services, 12:00 PM**

"So you'll be leaving early _again_, Millie?"

"Uh, yes. It's part of my Alcoholics Anonymous program." George began, feeling a little nervous over the whole thing. At first, it had been so hard to come up with credible lies, but now, they just flowed out without any prompting. "We go to a local high school and try to put some sense into the kids by telling them about addiction and other, uh...things."

"I'm so _proud_ of you Millie!"

At that moment, Delores leant over her desk and continued in a hushed tone. "It took me years before I could talk openly with others about my addiction to blow. You've moved that far, so fast, already."

_At least she's not crushing me in her shoulder...this time._

"Yes, yes I have."

**Franklin High School, 2:00 PM**

"Purpose of your visit?" asked the bored security guard sitting by the desk inside the main entrance to Franklin.

"I graduated a couple years ago; and I'm visiting one of my former teachers to see how things have been going."

"Right. Sign here in the logbook."

Picking up the pen on the desk, George thought for a moment before entering:

VISITOR: G. Lass

PURPOSE OF VISIT: To see Mrs Ingram.

TIME: 2:02 PM

_It's not like anyone reads these things anyway; and if they do, they'll think it's a sick prank by one of the kids, and I can't go signing my undead name at possible crime scenes..._

"You're going to need to wear this while you're in the building." added the guard, holding out a self-sticking tag with 'Visitor' on it.

For a moment George was taken aback, remembering the last time she had worn a tag. It had been two years ago; and it had said "HELLO! I'M NEW: ASK ME MY NAME"

"Problem?"

"No, it's just that they didn't have all this crap when I went here."

_And also the fact that the last time I wore something like that, I died._

"Yeah, I know. They really got pretty tough on security around 9/11. What can I say? It's an easy job."

_Until you get shot first in a school shooting....damn, I hope I didn't say that out loud._

Judging by the bored look on the guard's face as he resumed reading his well-worn paperback book, she hadn't said anything.

_I need to stop hanging around Roxy so much, she's a bad influence._

Wandering through the hallways, which were mostly empty at this time of the school schedule, she watched a couple of girls duck into a bathroom. After waiting several seconds, she followed them inside.

"What's up?"

"Jesus!" shouted one of the girls, a blonde who tried to get rid of the cigarette in her mouth by throwing it into one of the toilets.

"Relax. I'm not gonna tell, I'm just looking for the Mitchell boys."

"You that girl from Perryville the older one's been talking about?" asked a redhead.

"Yeah. I've been trying to find him; but this place is so damn hard to find your way through without a map."

"I know how you feel. It's like a lunatic designed the place." Taking a drag from her cigarette, the blonde sighed. "Usually, they hang out around the rear parking lot, the one near the football field after school."

"If only he paid as much attention to us as he does to that damn car." ad-libbed George; guessing that the parking lot location meant that he was showing off his car.

"Damn straight. What is it with this place? Either they're all nerds or in love with themselves." added the redhead with a dismissive snort.

_It's good to see that standards at Franklin have remained high in my absence._

"Thanks for the heads up. Appreciate it."

**Rear Parking Lot, Franklin High School: 2:29 PM**

Compared to her red Mustang, the yellow and black Honda that several people were clustered around was decidedly...ugly. The huge aftermarket spoiler on the back didn't help matters much. It just looked like a cheap car that someone had tried to change into something it wasn't.

_Which, when you think about it, is the story of my life._

**Lass Residence, 1997**

George speared the broccoli on her plate with the fork, listening to her mother drone on and on.

"I really do think it would be good for you Georgia, to try out for the Cheerleading squad. You'd make some friends that way."

"Yeah, like memorizing a bunch of inane chants and making eyes at the football team is _so_ important. Besides, most of them are whores."

"Georgia!"

"It's the truth! Liz Hartnell's blown most of the front lineup this month alone. I think she's working on the rest as this month's extracurricular project."

"I don't want that kind of language in front of Reggie!"

"It's not like she doesn't know it already from television."

"George," muttered Clancy, rubbing his eyes. "Your mother's worked hard on this dinner for all of us, and she's only trying to help you."

"Yeah, this broccoli is so _moist_."

"That's it! No more dinner for you, young lady!" shouted Joy.

"Make me," replied George, rolling her eyes. "I'm not nine anymore."

**Rear Parking Lot, Franklin High School: 2:29 PM**

Walking up to the car, George smelled the stench of opened beer cans.

_Drunken Driving. I hate those._

"Hey," she said, catching the attention of the people standing around the driver's side door. "Where's the Mitchell boys I've been hearing so much about?"

"Doug Mitchell, right here," replied a stocky boy wearing a football jersey. He hefted a Budweiser can in reply.

"Oh, I'm so excited to meet you!" George said in an excited voice as she dragged her hand across his arm suggestively. "They've been talking so much about the two of you and how you, like, play so well!"

_Did I just say that? God help me._

"Hey Brad, we've got an admirer here!" shouted Doug, motioning for his brother to come over.

"What's your name?" asked one of the girls partaking in the forbidden drink.

"Georgia."

"Pretty name. Mine's Abigail."

_Bingo. My third target._

Glancing at Abigail's hands, George reached out for them. "Oh, those nails are so _pretty_; you have to tell me who does them."

_I think I'm getting stupider by the moment._

"There's this nail shop at Lakeforest Mall that's owned by Akio's family;" Abigail said, pointing towards a pretty Asian girl coming towards them. "So the two of us get a _great_ price."

"Morita's Nails?" George said, fishing for a hit.

"Yeah. Great little place."

_Bang._

"It's been nice talking with you, but I got to catch a bus back home; all my friends are going to be _so_ thrilled that I met Doug and Brad."

As she walked away, George reached out imperceptibly and swiped Akio's soul.

_Now to wait._

Glancing at her watch, she saw it was only a few minutes from the ETD, and the parking lot was still full of school buses and student cars leaving the parking lot, resulting in a traffic jam.

_Hmm. They'll probably run a light at the turnoff into Harbrook and get t-boned._

As she watched, the crowd slowly dispersed, and her four reaps got into the car, and slowly drove away, the car swerving back and forth a bit. However, halfway to the entrance to Harbrook Lane, the car stopped and a girl, Akio, it looked like, got out.

_What the hell? Is this going to be a "I got hit by flying debris" death?_

As she watched, the Honda turned off into Harbrook, and after a dozen feet or so of travel, it swerved drunkenly enough to the left that it made contact with the fender of an oncoming dump truck; followed by the screech of metal and breaking glass.

She watched Akio for any signs of a delayed reaction as people rushed to the accident site, while the driver of the dump truck got out of the cab and around muttering "He swerved right into me..." over and over.

By this point, the wail of sirens could be heard faintly in the distance. Frowning, George reached into her pocket and fished out the post its, doublechecking the one for "A. Morita." It said ETD 2:36 PM, and it was now.....2:40 PM; and no corpse.

_What the fuck?_

Walking up to Akio, she could hear the girl crying softly, and she pretended to comfort the girl; and heard a _whooshing_ as the girl's soul went back where it belonged.

"Why'd you get out?"

"I just didn't feel safe. I was afraid of looking like a idiot in front of my friends, but Doug wasn't driving too well, and I didn't want to let my parents down like that. So I got out."

"So you got out."

"Yeah."

_Why did I stand at that spot in the park, staring at that meteor in the sky like an idiot, instead of moving out of the way?_

_Shit. I'm beginning to think that maybe Mason's right about all this. Then again, it's Mason, so probably not..._


End file.
